by Ken Saunders
This programming task she had been sent to work on for the Luddites, Aggie realised, was a bit like sculpting. She knew the shape of what she had and knew the shape of what she wanted. It was the old adage about how to work like Michelangelo: you take a block of marble and just chip away everything that doesn’t look like a statue of David.
Fortunately, this job wasn’t entirely up to her. The Luddites had another programmer on it. He wasn’t an official Ned Ludd, but went by a codename. She had never met him, but she could contact him. Although the Luddite system of communication was cumbersome, it did work. You just had to plan ahead. She would have a crack at this Michelangelo approach and see what he thought of it.
‘Before you go,’ Aggie called to the Veronicas, who were readying to leave, ‘the debate is on April twenty-third. I have to meet with several Luddites in Canberra beforehand so I’ll need to be there by the twenty-second.’
‘We can leave on the twentieth,’ one of the Veronicas suggested.
Aggie looked at her, puzzled.
‘Or the nineteenth if you want to do it more leisurely,’ Veronica offered.
Aggie’s facial expression switched from puzzled to aghast as she took in the meaning of what was being proposed. ‘I’m not cycling to Canberra!’ she told them flatly. Melbourne to Canberra would be more than six hundred kilometres. ‘There are buses, you know.’ She had to lay down the rules to these two. More leisurely! Was that their idea of more leisurely? A hundred and fifty kilometres a day!
‘Ned,’ Veronica said, adopting the tone one uses to reason with a recalcitrant child, ‘you haven’t thought it through. Listen to what Veronica and I have planned. With the debate just days away, we announce the great “On to Canberra” cycle event. Hundreds of cyclists will join us along the way. Think of it. By the time you enter Canberra, you’re not just the candidate for Wills, you’ll be leading a cavalcade of cyclists into the city! It’ll be amazing media!’
‘I’m not Julius Caesar,’ Aggie protested. ‘I don’t need to enter Canberra at the head of some pedalling cavalry!’ Aggie drew in a breath. She could tell she’d just set off a major double sulk.
‘Ned,’ one Veronica said quietly after a protracted silence, ‘I don’t think you appreciate the effort we’ve put into this.’
They looked so hurt, so pathetic to Aggie. ‘We’ll compromise,’ she said, exhaling. ‘I don’t have time to bicycle all the way. We’ll take the train to … Wagga. We’ll kick off your “On to Canberra” cycle from there. How far is that? A hundred and fifty kilometres? Two days,’ she stressed, flashing the V sign at them. ‘I can’t exhaust myself before the debate. We’ll overnight somewhere along the way.’
The Veronicas perked up a little. Wagga Wagga to Canberra was more like two hundred and fifty kilometres, but neither of them opted to point this out.
There was a knock. When Aggie opened the door, there stood what looked like a lycra-clad Greek god.
‘I am your new bodyguard from the Department for Security and Freedom,’ the man said. He hadn’t removed his bicycle helmet to introduce himself. He was close to two metres tall, Aggie estimated, with the physique of a sprint cyclist. ‘My name is Timothy Sakic, Ms Ludd, but you can call me …’
‘Thunder thighs,’ she heard one of the Veronicas whisper behind her.
‘Tim,’ he finished.
The department had sent them a real cyclist.
...
‘He’s telling the truth. He doesn’t have a gun on him, sir.’
‘Let him go.’ Fitzwilliams waved to the two bodyguards. They released each arm of the American ex-senator.
A groan came from the floor. Russ Langdon was struggling to his feet, a hand clutched to his forehead. ‘What in blazes were you doing?’ Fitzwilliams asked.
Langdon was groggy. ‘When I saw who it was I went to step in front of you. I tripped. Hit my head on the table.’
Fitzwilliams had not recognised the act, having only ever seen it done in slow motion in movies. Langdon had been throwing himself in front of his prime minister to protect him. That Langdon would do that for him briefly overwhelmed Fitzwilliams. God, if Langdon had taken a bullet for him, Fitzwilliams might have had to make him deputy leader or governor-general. If he kept it up, Langdon could well wound his way to the secretary-generalship of the United Nations.
Quentin produced a first-aid kit and pressed a bandage to Langdon’s forehead. Fortunately, there wasn’t much blood.
The Prime Minister turned towards Senator Bolen. No one had heard anything of him for years. His sensational trial and acquittal after shooting and wounding two hecklers at one of his rallies had been all over the news and then he’d disappeared. It had only been the most generous interpretation of the Stand Your Ground legislation that had enabled him to get off. The pledge. Fitzwilliams had heard of it. It was for American politicians who had literally gone mad over guns. It was sometimes called the ‘de Milo pledge’, referring to the disarming it entailed.
‘Yes, sirs and ma’am,’ ex-Senator Bolen said, acknowledging Donna Hargreaves’ presence, ‘I’ve got my life back thanks to the pledge. I did some terrible things with guns and I … chhlkk …’ Something seemed to catch in his throat. ‘It’s very fortunate,’ he managed, ‘that I did not hurt those people worse than I did.’ He seemed to choke again on something. ‘I brought a lot of strange and, I’d say now, dangerous ideas to the Senate and I … chhlllk … have moved beyond those narrow ideas I once held.’
Hargreaves’ health-minister eyes appraised the former senator. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but do you have Tourette syndrome?’
‘No, ma’am, I do not have Tourette syndrome,’ Bolen answered proudly. ‘I have taken a double pledge. I will not carry a gun anymore and I will not—’ the Senator switched into a quoting tone ‘—ascribe any of my political beliefs as being directly linked to the intervention of God, nor declare that ideas or actions I may disagree with are caused by satanic forces in any form.’ Bolen stopped. Fitzwilliams supposed he was expecting to be applauded; that was probably what they did for each other at the De Milo Clinic. The verbal tics in Bolen’s speech, the Prime Minister realised, covered pauses where he would have previously inserted praise God or thank God or any other godly utterance.
Fitzwilliams turned away from the mesmerising man. ‘Olga, what’s the plan here?’
Olga chuckled. ‘I’ve arranged for Senator Bolen to be interviewed on the very same shows where Lister St John plans to tell his campaign tales. You know the format of those shows. One guest is interviewed and then sits there when the next guest is brought out. When Lister St John comes out, he’ll be greeted by the smiling face of the former senator.’
‘And I can reminisce about how Lister helped with my campaign in 2020,’ Bolen declared. ‘Lister was the one who wrote the “I Have a Nightmare” speech. He had an instinctive feel for what prejudices to feed to which audiences.’ The senator stopped his reminiscing. ‘I’m terribly ashamed of that speech,’ he reminded himself. ‘When I gave voice to those words, they were the thoughts of a very ignorant and narrow man. I … chhkllk … am grateful I’ve moved on from there. I’m not sure Lister has made the same journey.’
‘You could ask him on national television,’ Olga suggested.
Fitzwilliams’ eyes rested on Olga in utter admiration. If Lister St John was a mosquito annoying him, Olga had arranged to hit it with a sledgehammer. He could hardly wait to watch the show.
One of Olga’s staffers led Bolen away.
‘He’s using Australia as a warm-up ground to see how well his new persona plays,’ Olga explained. ‘It may be just to go on the book and lecture circuit or, who knows, perhaps his new personality is electable over there.’
‘The bleeding has stopped, Prime Minister,’ Quentin reported. ‘Minister Langdon won’t need stitches. I can bandage him properly now.’
‘Ahem!’ Alan Chandos cleared his throat grandly. ‘If we can move on from goal-kicking opposition leaders and n
o-longer-gun-toting American senators, you may recall I promised you an election-winning policy.’
‘What is it?’ Fitzwilliams asked eagerly. His mood had lifted. Comedians would savage Labor’s Battler ads, Olga was going to smash Lister St John, Chandos was promising to produce a gem. We are Aussie, it’s what we are about, his brain hummed.
‘Tax reform,’ Chandos answered.
The humming in Fitzwilliams’ head ceased. Tax reform? Tax breaks the electorate could comprehend in an election, but tax reform was always complicated. ‘There’re always some losers in any tax reform,’ Fitzwilliams cautioned. ‘They won’t take it well during an election.’
‘Ah,’ Chandos replied, savouring his PM’s comment. ‘There’re no losers in this tax reform, only winners!’ He clicked on the screen immediately behind him and turned to it almost affectionately to begin his presentation. ‘The trouble with income tax,’ he explained, ‘is that the benefits of paying it are too indirect. People want the things the government provides—schools, hospitals, bitumen on the runway when your plane is landing—but no one really likes paying taxes. My reform—’ he paused as if waiting for a trumpet fanfare to finish ‘—will make paying income tax popular. Let me introduce to you … “Play as You Go” taxation!’
It was unlike any tax reform ever proposed. There was no change to tax rates or deductions whatsoever. Instead, for every one hundred dollars paid in income tax, a taxpayer received one Tax Lotto ticket. Each week, the tax office would draw one ticket to win a million dollars. If you paid $5200 in taxes one year, you got a ticket in each of the weekly draws for the following year. If you paid $10,400 in taxes, you got two tickets. The more income tax you paid, the better your chances of winning. It would cost virtually nothing to run. Taxpayers would receive their Tax Lotto numbers each week by email. All that would have to be paid for was the five-minute Lotto razzamatazz broadcast to reveal the week’s winning number. It would be a windfall for the government.
‘Maybe it’s because I was just hit on the head,’ the bandaged Langdon said, ‘but I don’t get it. How’s it a windfall for government? It’ll cost us fifty-two million dollars per year. Nice for the fifty-two winners, but it doesn’t help our coffers.’
‘Thank you for asking.’ Chandos beamed. ‘There has never before been such a clear incentive to pay income tax. Think of the grumbling taxpayer sitting down to do their tax return. Now when they look over all the petty things they write off as deductions—the depreciation on a home computer they allege they use seventy-five per cent of the time for work purposes, the work-related travel expenses, education deductions—they’ll pause and think: why bother with this receipt for the Effective Communication training course they took last February, a course they can’t even remember? If they don’t claim it, they’ll get more chances to win. Eat that receipt instead of filing it and you might win a million dollars! Our modelling predicts that the average taxpayer will reduce their deduction claims by two hundred and eighty-three dollars per year!’
Russell Langdon, doing some rough calculations in his head, whistled appreciatively.
‘More significantly, after Play as You Go starts, we can abolish just about any tax deduction in the Tax Act we want. If some special interest group starts moaning about it, the rest of the populace will just think, “What are they complaining about? They’ll get more Tax Lotto tickets, the whingers.” Play as You Go will be a weekly celebration of paying income tax where one Aussie income tax payer gets thanked with a million dollars!’
There was an almost Pavlovian salivation in response to the proposal.
‘I take it we only announce this as a weekly celebration of income tax payers,’ Langdon said. ‘I mean, we announce the prize, but not the two hundred and eighty-three dollars of deductions modelling. We’re just thanking our taxpayers.’
Chandos nodded at him contentedly.
‘It’s brilliant.’ Fitzwilliams was awestruck. ‘It’s a perfect last-week-of-the-campaign announcement. Into the home stretch. Our government has achieved such fabulous financial management that we’ll reward our taxpayers each week with the chance to win a million dollars. Let Roslyn Stanfield try to kick that between the goalposts.’
‘What do you think, Leon?’ Chandos asked the bodyguard.
‘The chance to win a million dollars for paying my taxes? I’m in, if government employees are allowed to play.’
We are Aussie, it’s what we are about, the Prime Minister’s brain chirped happily.
...
The four stumbled into the flat, laughing. Old Ned Ludd, the one with the appalling cough, clapped both young Kate and Candidate Ned on the back and gave Amy a hug. ‘We’re going to win!’ he declared.
Amy couldn’t recall having had so much fun in recent years: meeting people, laughing, talking, debating—mostly laughing. She’d spent the Saturday as part of this Luddite gang of four campaigning throughout Glebe and Ultimo. The reception the Luddites were getting was amazing. And Kate, only seventeen years old, had impressed. The national wage concept of hers and how it would work was a difficult idea to get across, and yet she’d seen people question the young woman on it all day and come away if not converted, at least considering it. ‘It sounds a bit utopian,’ one man had told her. ‘You got a problem with living in utopia?’ Kate had retorted.
Candidate Ned put the pizzas on his coffee table and disappeared into the kitchen for drinks and plates. He had the opposite campaigning style to Kate. He spent the time discussing with voters what was important to them. He was a perceptive listener and he came across well. He was—Amy paused on the words even in her thoughts—very attractive.
Kate took off her hat and, with a flourish, pulled off the celery stick affixed to it and took a chomp out of it. It didn’t give the satisfying crunching sound she had hoped for as it had been gradually wilting in the sun all day. The celery stick had become the de facto Luddite campaign symbol. Nobody had organised it, but people everywhere were wearing them. ‘Michael at the fruit-and-veg told me yesterday that he sold out of celery by eleven am. Today, he was selling them as individual sticks,’ Kate informed them. ‘How brilliant is it to have a party’s symbol distributed nationwide by fruit-and-veg shops!’
The momentum was incredible. Amy had seen people sporting celery sticks on their hats, their bags, their lapels. Younger voters seemed to like two half celery sticks worn as epaulettes.
‘Who wants a beer?’ Candidate Ned called from the other room.
A chorus of ‘I do’ answered him. Ned stuck his head out of the kitchen. ‘Kate, you’re seventeen. I’m not giving you a beer.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Ned! My mothers let me have beer occasionally.’
‘Then go home and have a beer with your mothers,’ Ned replied bluntly.
‘I’ve worked all day on your campaign,’ Kate pleaded.
‘Kate, as an MP, I can’t be giving beers to underage kids.’
Kate stood up. Amy assumed she was offended at being called a kid, but she raised her hand in a high five gesture. Candidate Ned slapped it reflexively. ‘What was that for?’ he asked.
Kate was grinning broadly. ‘You said “as an MP”. We’re going to win, aren’t we!’
Candidate Ned seemed to stiffen. ‘There’s still a long way to go in the campaign,’ he replied cautiously, but Amy could tell that cautiousness was tinged with excitement.
Old Ned gave a few hacking coughs. ‘All the stars have aligned,’ he said. Sydney was traditionally a safe Labor seat, but the much-loved Labor MP had retired. Their new candidate was supposed to be an up-and-coming bright light of the party, but on the campaign trail, he seemed to have only the light part down pat.
‘I had never realised,’ Old Ned wheezed, ‘what an asset the Ned Ludd name was going to be during an election.’ He paused for breath. ‘Normally, if you run as an independent, ninety-nine per cent of the electorate has never heard of you and you don’t stand a chance, but every voter in the country—’ he coughed
for emphasis ‘—knows the name Ned Ludd!’
Candidate Ned re-appeared with plates, beers and a glass of ginger beer, which Kate took grudgingly. ‘On October fourteenth,’ she muttered, ‘you owe me a beer.’
‘What’s October fourteenth?’ Ned asked.
‘My eighteenth birthday, obviously!’
‘Won’t that be the middle of your Higher School Certificate exams?’
‘God, Ned,’ Kate despaired, ‘you’re worse than my parents!’
They sat down around the pizzas. Amy took a seat on the couch next to Candidate Ned, her leg gently touching his. He didn’t pull his away. Kate noticed it and smirked at Amy, as if privately amused. Amy looked away and attacked the pizza hungrily.
‘There’s news,’ Candidate Ned announced. ‘I’ve been contacted by the Luddite … high command.’ Nobody had a proper term for it. There was a degree of communication taking place between Luddite candidates, but no one knew who was coordinating it. ‘I was handed this surreptitiously,’ Candidate Ned showed them a folded piece of paper, ‘by someone who shook hands with me in Ultimo.’ He unfolded the paper carefully and handed it around. ‘Kate and I are to go to Canberra next weekend. We’re to meet with Ned Ludd to help her prepare for the debate next Sunday.’
‘How did this come about?’ Old Ned demanded.
‘I suggested it to her,’ Candidate Ned answered. ‘I sent the message to the Ned Ludd in the leaders’ debate. I met her on the march in Canberra.’
‘The nude one?’ Old Ned asked. ‘I mean you were all nude that day, but she was rather …’ he coughed, ‘wonderfully nude.’
‘It’s not as though we’re nudist pals,’ Candidate Ned answered mildly peevishly. ‘I have seen her with her clothes on.’
‘That is rather an odd thing to boast about, lad,’ Old Ned wheezed.
Amy felt herself flush, the conversation reminding her that she had seen this Ned nude on the news reports that day. Was she imagining it, or had his leg pressed against hers more firmly during this discussion?